


Never Happened

by china_shop



Series: Never Happened [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Fic, Ill-advised kisses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-03
Updated: 2010-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal answered the door with a glass in one hand. His hair was ruffled, his shirt open at the neck—tie gone—and his gaze slightly unfocused. "Peter?"</p><p>Episode tag for 1.06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Happened

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sage for beta. &lt;3
> 
> Contains spoilers for 1.06.

Peter happened to look up from his report on the Lao case and glance across the office just as Jones stopped at Neal's desk to exchange a few words. Something was off. Neal had been fine at lunch, proud of double-crossing both Lao and Interpol, and even willing to hand over the empty flashdrive Mei Lin had given him, but now he was jumpy and tense, his smile forced. Even from here, Peter could see that.

Something had happened, but Peter couldn't for the life of him figure out what. There hadn't been anyone unusual in the office, no sign of Ruiz, and Hughes had only waved his congratulations from a distance.

Perhaps delayed disappointment at not finding Kate had sunk in, eclipsing Neal's triumph. Or perhaps Mei Lin had fired a parting shot somehow.

Whatever it was, Neal didn't look happy, and a discontented Neal was a recipe for catastrophe at the most, and Peter developing a stomach ulcer at the least. But before Peter could call him over, Hughes summoned all his senior staff to an emergency budget meeting, which dragged on for the rest of the afternoon. By the time Peter escaped, Neal had left for the day.

Peter sighed and called Elizabeth. "Honey, I'm going to be late."

"Is everything okay?" She sounded distracted. "No, Tina, don't put that there! Just—wait a second. I need to—"

"Everything's fine. I just need to talk to Neal," said Peter quickly. "I'll see you later."

"Okay," she said. "I'm going to be late, too. At this rate, I'll be lucky to be home by midnight. We're setting up the hall, and no one seems to have any idea what—Tina! No! Could you just hang on a moment, please."

"Bye, honey. I love you." Peter hung up, feeling faintly sorry for Tina. El could be a demanding taskmaster.

He spent another hour finishing off the Lao paperwork, checked Neal's tracking data to make sure he was at home and went over to see what was going on.

Neal answered the door with a glass in one hand. His hair was tousled, his shirt open at the neck—tie gone—and his gaze slightly unfocused. "Peter?"

Peter pushed his way inside. "What's wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong?" asked Neal, closing the door. He turned slowly to meet Peter's eye, exaggerated innocence written all over his face.

There was a half-empty bottle of single malt on the table. In the beer garden, and again when Peter had come over and met Haversham, Neal had made half a glass of wine last for over an hour. And now, from the way he was hanging on the doorjamb and from the strong smell of whisky on his breath, it looked like he'd downed half a bottle since he'd arrived home.

"For starters, you don't drink," said Peter.

Neal waved his hand in a clumsy gesture. "Professional training," he explained, over-enunciating. "Survival skill. I have to increase my tolerance."

"Your alcohol tolerance?" That made sense: if Neal was going to go undercover every second week, he had to be able to fit in _and_ keep his wits about him. And after four years in prison, his tolerance was bound to be minimal. Peter slung his coat over the back of the couch and went to get himself a glass.

Neal nodded agreement, then frowned as Peter poured himself a measure of whisky and raised his glass. "You can't be here. You have to go."

The whisky was smoky and left a seductive trail of warmth all the way down Peter's throat. He took another swallow, already feeling a little heady. "Why?"

"First rule," said Neal. "Never drink with the mark."

"I'm the mark." A pang of disappointment soured the glow from the whisky.

Neal's frown deepened. "No. No, you're my partner, but—" He shook his head and went to sprawl on the couch. "It's not that you don't want anything from me; it's—I don't know what it is."

Peter moved his coat to one of the armchairs and sat down next to Neal, who blinked at him owlishly.

"Why are you here?"

"I want to be your friend." It sounded awkward just saying it like that. Peter looked down at his own glass, already nearly empty.

Neal had frozen. "Just friends?"

"Friends and partners," said Peter, and looked around the room, cluttered with wealth and culture, far too warm. He nudged Neal with his elbow. "What happened this afternoon, after lunch?"

"Nothing happened," said Neal, with obvious care. He still wasn't moving. He was hiding something.

"Did you talk to Mei Lin?" Peter asked, on a hunch. "Neal, just remember—" He put his hand on Neal's knee for emphasis. "—she has no reason to tell you the truth."

Neal was staring at Peter's hand, now. Peter took it away again and leaned back. He'd made his point, and Neal didn't show any sign of opening up. Even Peter could tell it was time to change the subject. "So tell me," he said. "Explain it to me. How does someone end up here, living in the clouds with a tracking bracelet on his ankle. How does that start?"

"Peter—" Neal shifted on the couch next to him, his knee brushing Peter's own.

Peter didn't move, just waited.

Neal sighed, took another mouthful of whisky and swallowed it with a grimace. "You really want to—Okay. This is how it starts. First you meet this guy, really mean. Mean guy. And he takes your friend for everything, and you just want to get it back." Neal shrugged. "A couple months later, another guy pisses you off. After that, you think, hey, I can do this. I'm good at this. How good am I? And you start to set yourself some challenges. It stops being about them and it starts being about you."

Peter nodded as if that made any kind of sense. "And what happens to all the stuff—the money, the art?"

"Hypothetically?" Neal shrugged again, his shirt rustling against the couch cushions. "You give it away, or you put it somewhere safe, or you gamble. It's not about the money, man. It's about the skill and the thrill."

"But you like nice things." Peter tilted his head to give him a _don't bullshit me_ look.

Neal's answering smile was bewitching. "You've got to have nice things to get nice things. You know that, Peter. Just like you've got to have funding and surveillance equipment and manpower to catch the really elusive guys."

Peter conceded that with a smile and lowered his voice. "What's rule number two?"

"Huh?" Neal's gaze dropped to Peter's mouth, as if he were belatedly trying to see and make sense of the words. His cheeks were almost feverish pink. If he kept drinking at this rate, he was either going to throw up all night or end up in the emergency room. But he was an adult, and tonight Peter wanted to be his friend, not his keeper.

Peter took another drink himself and loosened his tie. "Rule number one is don't drink with the mark. What's rule number two?"

"Rule number two is—" Neal licked his lips. "Peter—"

"Yeah?"

"I think about you," said Neal, with all the quiet intensity of a very drunk con artist.

It occurred to Peter that he had no idea if he was being played. It could be that Neal knew exactly what he was doing and saying and how he was making Peter feel. Which was, mostly, uncomfortable and embarrassed.

He tried to be kind anyway. He looked deep into his glass. "I can't say the thought's never crossed my mind—" He took a deep breath. "—but I'm a married man. You know that. Happily married. And I'm responsible for you."

"Right." The warmth drained from Neal's face, leaving him shuttered and polite. "Forget it."

"Neal, I would like to be your friend," said Peter, hoping they could somehow stumble their way back to something reasonable. Something possible.

Neal nodded. "You got it."

He stood up, nearly overbalancing, and went to fetch the whisky bottle from the table.

"I'm not your mark," Peter reminded him.

Neal stalked toward him, frustration flashing in his eyes. "You think I don't know that?" he said, raising his voice. "You're my handler, my partner, you act like we're friends one minute and the next thing I know, you're checking up on me. You pull my tracking data, my credit cards, Christ knows what else, and I don't even—" He snapped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw, staring past Peter into the middle distance for a long painful moment. "That's not friends, Peter. I don't know what we are, but we're not friends."

Peter stood up to face him, removed the whisky bottle from his grasp and set it on the coffee table, and took him by the arm. "There's more than one way to—"

Neal interrupted him with a kiss—hard and angry, tasting of expensive alcohol, and so unapologetically carnal that Peter gasped, stepping back in surprise. Neal followed him and took advantage of the access afforded him, slid his tongue into Peter's mouth and dragged him close into a strong embrace, leaving Peter in no doubt of the lean hunger of his body—or of Peter's own response.

Whisky-hazed and aroused, it took Peter a minute to summon the resolution to break away.

Neal wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a vivid illustration of just how drunk he was, and stood there, bright-eyed and vulnerable, and still with that edge of anger. "Do you see now? For us to be friends would take a miracle and—it's not what I want."

"Then what—?" Peter swallowed, unable to finish the question, especially with Neal almost sneering at him.

"For a brilliant detective, you can be incredibly slow."

Peter flushed and resisted the urge to look away, to distract both of them with another drink or feigned ignorance. "You know I can't."

"I know, I know," said Neal, reaching for the bottle himself, pouring a double measure. "You're straight. Believe me, I know."

"No," said Peter. "I'm _married_."

Neal's gaze flew to meet his, frustration falling away. He set the bottle and glass back down carefully and rubbed his face, and somehow, against all the odds, managed to dredge up a facsimile of sobriety.

"Can we pretend this conversation never happened?" he said. "Please?"

Peter nodded, at once relieved and guilty. "Yeah."

"I—" Neal shook his head. "You shouldn't be here."

"Okay." He patted Neal's shoulder awkwardly. "Take it easy. Drink plenty of water."

He collected his coat and Neal walked him to the door. "Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry. I would never want to—"

"It never happened," Peter reminded him.

Neal nodded and held the door open. "Right. I'll see you at work on Monday."

"You will." Peter clenched his hands to keep from touching Neal again and made himself turn away. He didn't hear the door shut behind him.


End file.
